


Film Noir Gone Blue

by InfraVioletUltraRed



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous duration of the relationship, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/M, anything for ratings, live TV, soul goo, vibrating robot-cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 08:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16636517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfraVioletUltraRed/pseuds/InfraVioletUltraRed
Summary: Reader joins Mettaton in a performance on live TV, taken aback (but pleasantly surprised) when he goes off script. Female reader, because of language used in reference to her (e.g. "widow" and "woman"). No genitalia are described.





	Film Noir Gone Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend who has graciously allowed me to post it here for you all to enjoy, too!  
> Also, I like noir novels, so I tried to write Mettaton playing a detective from noir detective films. I dunno how well I did, but that's just set dressing ;)

“I’m not much of an actress,” you complained, pulling at the neckline of your dress, trying to get it to cover more of your skin.

Mettaton tapped the backs of your hands, trying to get you to stop fiddling with the costume. “You’ll do fine! And it’s not as though you really need to do much acting, darling. Unless flirting with me is _really_ going to be so difficult.” This last part he purred, leaning in so only you could hear it.

You flushed at his closeness, and adjusted the dress again. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.” He grinned and threw you a wink, coming out of the lean, and turning back to the rest of the cast and crew of the show. “Be ready!” He whispered to everyone-- this was live, after all.

The bar scene began without you, Mettaton striding into the place in his role as the dashing hero-- as dashing as a noir hero could be-- and flopping onto a seat. You could hear the whirs and practically see the calculations as he prepared to fling himself onto the stool.

He sat, and the studio audience went _nuts._ You would have, too, if you weren’t trying to keep it together both to get through the two scenes you were going to be in, and to not mess up the live broadcast.

“The detective” ordered a drink, downing it.

Now, you knew Mettaton could hold his liquor okay, but you were vaguely curious if that one drink was going to have any influence on the night’s events-- you prayed not, but curiosity fought against your wishes for a good show, just a little bit.

He left, flicking coins onto the counter, and you knew your cue was soon. You got into your position near his office set, ready to make your entrance.

He launched into his monologue, about darkness and dames and all that, and then-- your cue. You walked into the view of the cameras, and to your shock, people gasped when they saw you? You ran your fingers gracefully under your bangs, flipping them a little dramatically, and rapped on the door.

You explained the case to the detective, all the while doing your best eyelash-fluttering and sultry speaking.

You hadn’t felt very capable before, but you were getting into it, and you were fairly convinced that if you hadn’t had Mettaton wrapped around your little finger before, _well,_ you would now.

So you sashayed out of the office, “hoping he could help you out, if he knew what you meant,” and you could feel his gaze on your backside. You flipped your bangs from your eyes again and exited the scene.

_

The next scene you two had together went even better and so, _so_ much worse.

Somewhere between the multiple glasses of scotch and all the piano and saxophone playing, giving the play performed for the viewers in the studio _and_ at home the smoky, stormy atmosphere it so needed, the seduction scene came around. You’d been excited for it after how well your first scene had gone, so you worked your way through the beginnings of this scene-- the detective’s narration about how you dripped sex, how he could only imagine what you wore beneath that incredible red dress you wore as you drifted in and out of his office, if anything-- and then, you drifted into his office again.

Ah, but this time, the detective was prepared! Or so he thought. Women were tricky, after all. You settled onto his lap, one arm curling around his shoulders, the other hand’s index finger under his chin to get him to look at you. In your affected breathiness, you asked, _hadn’t he gotten any closer to cracking this case?_ “Come on now, don’t you have any sympathy in your heart for a young widow like myself, inspector?”

Something buzzed against your thigh. Oh, good god. _He was testing you._

Well, you’d steel yourself and pretend nothing was happening-- oh, but something was _supposed_ to happen. Maybe he was prepping you. Maybe he was teasing. You couldn’t ask at this stage in the game.

“I think you’ll find I express my sympathy in rather… _unconventional_ ways, at least to young widows like yourself.” His gaze had to be pulled from your chest. You couldn’t remember if that was scripted.

Did it matter, at this point? Everything you two were saying to each other was laced with innuendo, and he was still buzzing against you, more insistently ever since you’d shifted to get your thigh off… the point. You weren’t even sure how and when he’d opened the panel on his back and started the vibration, since you couldn’t remember his hands leaving your lap.

Well, until now, as one started a crawl up your skirt.

The temptation to swat his hand away was there, was probably in character as an attempt at propriety, but you knew, your character wanted the detective, you wanted Mettaton. You let his hand rise. Though, you did settle your hand atop it to deliver your next line.

“And I take it you’re trying to show me?”

His grin up at you was wolfish, “If you’ll let me, madam.”

_

That was supposed to be it. There was supposed to be a fade to black, all mics muted, and Mettaton would bolt across the stage to get back to the bar set for the next scene.

_But he didn’t do that._

_None of that happened._

What _did_ happen? Mettaton stood up, lifting you with him, and he put you down on his desk.

Your eyes immediately went to saucers, mouthing _can this desk hold me?_ To which Mettaton just shrugged. Well, so far, it supported your weight. But as soon as he rocked into you, you weren’t so sure it would hold up anymore. How could you say with surety that he was going to rock into you? You knew Mettaton, if he wasn’t being stopped-- and you weren’t stopping him, so it’d be up to the tech crew, and none of them were doing anything, either-- he would just charge onward. He was already working your skirt up past your knees, little movements upward on your thighs, dragging the red material up over your legs, until it was at your waist and he could get at what he wanted.

He managed to stay in character for at least another moment, though, a smirk and a “just as I’d thought: nothing.” But he wasted no time and was in you in an instant; considering that he’d never turned the vibration off, it was a lot to take in-- literally.

So you cried out, and that only spurred him on. One of his hands curled around your ankle, lifting it gradually more with each thrust, every one more needy and insistent than the last.

It hit you slowly, then all at once as you sat back on the desk, spread wide for him, your back to the cameras and one foot in the air: you were fucking, in character, off-script, _on national television._

_And you were enjoying it immensely._

You didn’t touch him, really, you were busy leaning back to more evenly distribute your weight on the desk (the last thing you wanted was to break set pieces during this little indiscretion) and enjoying the view of him pistoning in and out of you, his hair falling in his eyes (more than usual, that is) and a determined look in them.

You did, however, keep up a litany of moans and other sounds-- not really on purpose, it was just always like that, but you were glad he had you stuttering on breaths, because the creaking of the desk in silence save for the buzzing would have been more embarrassing than there being evidence that you were enjoying this as much as he was.

You got brave enough as you neared orgasm to sit up a little, trailing a hand down his chest until you reached the chamber where his soul resided. He really was quite excited, the chamber, normally watertight, was… leaking a little bit.

You swept up some of the fluid with a finger, popping it into your mouth almost before he’d realized what you’d done, but when he did? Oh goodness.

The moan he let out could have rocked the stage; it certainly rocked you (though perhaps in a different sense), and you watched as his shirt was just _completely_ stained across the stomach with ooze.

The sight… knowing you had done that to him... triggered your climax, and you let yourself make as much noise as you felt was appropriate for a young widow like yourself, and the tech crew immediately began chattering into their mics about how to fix the mess you two had made.

The cameramen focused, very unsubtly, on a lit but un-smoked cigarette. The trail of smoke drifted upwards, being as symbolic as anyone let it as the crew tore Mettaton’s vest and shirt off, giving him a new one and dressing him quickly.

Someone had the good sense to turn off the vibration and shut his panel, too.

He finished the play somehow even more confident than before, and you watched from the side in a mix of pride, shame, and satisfaction.

Well, it was certainly… as sordid as the city was said to be.

_

To your shock but delight, the ratings afterward were soaring, and the reviews the next day were mostly positive. You even got some praise from critics, saying your “portrayal of a newly freed woman taking the bit out of her sexuality’s mouth was not only compelling but at times too hot too handle, but not for the impeccable Mettaton!”

Mettaton looked up from the newspaper and over at you.

“They love you, you know.”

“Do they?” You took a sip of tea and looked out the window of his apartment.

“They’re raving about you. I think they like you more than they like me.”

You snorted. “That’s just impossible.”

He put down the paper, folding his hands under his chin. “Well, I like you more than I like me.” You smiled at him. He continued. “You should be in my dramatic pursuits more often. I was thinking Romeo and Juliet next.”


End file.
